


No Other Man

by roboticonography



Series: The Next Guy [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Companion Piece, F/M, Steve Rogers Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: Peggy looks after a defrosted Steve during his recovery. But there are things she hasn't told him...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to [The Next Guy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596488/chapters/15090508), taking place during the latter half of the third chapter of that story. I’d advise reading that one first if you want to avoid being spoiled, but I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.
> 
> Also, take note: if you did not enjoy the ending of that story, you probably won't like this one. Please note the tags and read on at your own risk.
> 
> I started writing this meaning it to be a short piece, based on [indiefic’s hilarious comment about the sex fan](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/58937371). Then everyone in the story had thoughts and feelings, and it took me a million years to write my way out. But the fan does make an appearance. ;)
> 
> This story is three chapters and a short epilogue. It is complete, and will be posted as time permits.

Peggy brings Steve home at the height of the heat wave.

 

It’s a decision she makes out of necessity: his security and his privacy are a drain on both the clinic’s resources and the SSR’s. And with so many people involved in his daily care, it’s only a matter of time before word gets out about Captain America’s miraculous resurrection. The United States government is totally unprepared to deal with the fallout from that—and, for that matter, so is Steve.

 

So, once his broken bones are mended and his circulation and breathing are relatively normal, the doctors release him into her care.

 

To prepare for Steve’s arrival, Howard loans her the services of Mr. Jarvis, who assists in procuring the essentials: groceries, clothes, toiletries. It’s a relief to have his input; Peggy, despite having spent most of her life around men, has no idea what sort of shaving tackle Steve would want, or what size collar he wears. She does manage to guess his waist measurement correctly, which is something, at least.

 

Her flat is small, and the bedroom tends to get a bit stale, but she moves the fan in from the living room to help the air circulate. She politely declines Howard’s offer to loan them his air-conditioned Manhattan penthouse, because implicit in the offer is Howard’s unconditional access to Steve. Peggy loves Howard dearly, and is grateful to him for his help in Steve’s recovery, but she still doesn’t entirely trust him after the affair of the blood sample.

 

Clearly, Steve isn’t the only one with wounds that are still healing.

 

Mr. Jarvis delivers Steve early one Sunday morning. When he steps out of the car, it’s a bit shocking: how pale he is, how much weight he’s lost. How vulnerable he looks, standing on the sidewalk in his striped hospital pajamas and slippers. But he smiles gamely, and shakes Mr. Jarvis’s hand, thanking him for the ride.

 

They use the building’s rear entrance; it takes Steve a good quarter of an hour to negotiate the four flights of stairs, and he’s visibly sweating by the time they reach the landing. It’s a testament to how sick he is that he doesn’t balk, even momentarily, at sleeping in her bed.

 

He stays in bed for days, stirring only occasionally to use the bathroom or to eat the simple meals she prepares. She’s always been a bit of a disaster artist in the kitchen, but she can manage some beef broth and a slice of toast. The food doesn’t sit well with him, but the doctors have told her it’s important to his recovery; his body is still trying to hibernate. He needs to get his digestive system used to working again.

 

His temperature rises and falls in waves. She can’t keep an accurate record because the first time she puts a thermometer in his mouth, he bites it hard enough to break the glass. It’s only by a combination of super-serum and sheer luck that neither of them ends up slashed to bits or poisoned. After that, she does the best she can to keep him cool and comfortable.

 

Around the middle of the fourth day, she lays out fresh pajamas, draws him a lukewarm bath, and coaxes him out of bed to have a wash. He lets her escort him as far as the door, politely but firmly refusing her offer to help him undress.

 

At her request, he keeps the door open just a crack, handing his hospital pajamas out to her. It’s not the day for the laundry service, but a bit of elbow grease and some carbolic soap is enough to do the trick.

 

After a time, she hears the tap running; curls of steam unfurl lazily into the hall. Presumably he intends to soak, so she lets him be while she does the washing-up.

 

She’s in the middle of sweeping the kitchen floor when he calls out: “Peggy?”

 

She’s at the door in an instant: trying to shoulder her way in, encountering resistance. “What’s wrong?” Her heart is racing. “Steve?”

 

“Nothing, I just—Peggy, stop pushing on the door—I just have a question, you don’t have to come in.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Did you buy this stuff?”

 

“The clothes? No, Mr. Jarvis picked everything out. Do they not fit? Your hospital things won’t be dry for another couple of hours.”

 

“They fit okay.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

A weary sigh, and then: “I don’t want to be rude.”

 

“You might as well, while you’re still feeling poorly enough to get away with it,” she points out. “Howard’s coming by tomorrow. If there’s anything you’d like changed, we can ask him.”

 

“It’s just—I don’t usually wear jockey shorts. And the colours are a little much.”

 

She has to press the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing: amid the flamboyant array of colours available in the store, they’d picked out the most subdued blues, in a tasteful stripe.

 

“I expect Mr. Jarvis is used to Howard’s preferences,” she manages at last.

 

“I guess you see a lot of Howard these days.”

 

_Plus ça change_ , she thinks. She’s sacrificed her career, risked life and livelihood, _and_ let him sleep in her bed into the bargain—but Steve is still, somehow, unsure of her. It’s equal parts endearing and infuriating, though just now she can feel the scale sliding towards the latter.

 

“I stayed at his house in California last summer. He’s rather liberal in his habits. He blames it on the heat. So yes, you could say I have been seeing a lot of him—far more than I’d like, honestly.”

 

Steve chuckles softly. “I still don’t understand how you two are friends.”

 

“Habit. And a judicious amount of bribery on his end. Take note: apparently my friendship can be bought.”

 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” The statement is punctuated by the distinct snap of an elastic waistband.

 

“If they’re very uncomfortable, just go without for today.” Jokingly, she adds, “I do it all the time.”

 

Silence. Clearly, a step too far.

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says to the closed door. “If there’s anything you need, just give a shout.”

 

*

 

The next day, Howard arrives bearing gifts. Mrs. Jarvis has packed a beautiful hamper full of foods that require minimal preparation or reheating, which is incredibly kind of her, though Peggy isn’t certain that Steve will take any of them. There’s an awful lot of aspic and tapioca—both of which are supposed to be good for convalescents, even if the appearance leaves something to be desired.

 

The patient is awake and talkative, enough so that Peggy feels confident in leaving him alone with Howard for a few minutes. She takes advantage of the presence of Mr. Jarvis and the car to make a quick supply run: meat and eggs, bread and milk, and a bottle of whiskey, since she’s certain that Howard won’t hesitate to help himself to hers. They also stop at a department store, where Mr. Jarvis picks out a selection of less fashion-forward undershorts.

 

When she returns, Steve has retreated to the bedroom. Howard, as predicted, has fixed himself a glass of whiskey with a shot of Coke, and is sitting by the window in his shirtsleeves. He looks so emphatically guilty that Peggy immediately knows there’s been a cock-up of some sort.

 

She looks in on Steve, who appears to be asleep, burrowed into the covers. Even with the window open, the room is stifling. She switches on the fan, and replaces the stale glass of water by the bed with a fresh one.

 

In the living room, she eyes Howard suspiciously. “You didn’t mix him one of those, did you?”

 

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

 

“Then what have you done?”

 

“That’s a hell of a leap to make, especially in those shoes.”

 

She folds her arms, waiting.

 

“Fine.” He throws up his hands in defeat. “I may have told him about how we found him.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Howard!”

 

“Oh, calm down.” He takes a gulp of his drink. “He was going to find out eventually.”

 

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! You couldn’t wait to brag about your heroic rescue, is that it?”

 

“That’s not—”

 

“Get out,” she snarls.

 

Howard edges towards the front door, still talking. “Peg, come on. He had questions. You want me to lie to him? You’d rather it came from Dugan, or one of your old pals at the SSR?”

 

Part of her knows that Howard is right—that it’s only reasonable that Steve should want to know the circumstances of his recovery. Even if her every instinct compels her to protect him, to keep him as far away from the awful reality of that underground bunker as possible.

 

It’s exhausting, always being on guard. And it’s also unfair to Steve.

 

“All right,” she says wearily. “Just… go home.”

 

With one hand on the doorknob, Howard adds, “I also told him about you and Sousa.”

 

Peggy yanks the door open and shoves him out into the hall.

 

*

 

About an hour later, Steve emerges from the bedroom, looking a bit sleep-drugged but otherwise none the worse for wear. He eases down beside her on the settee; the look he gives her is faintly reproachful.

 

Before she can figure out where to begin, he says, “Don’t blame Howard.”

 

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” she snaps.

 

“Feel however you want,” he replies, quite reasonably. “But if you’re looking for someone to be sore at, start with me. You have a tan line.” He points to her ring finger. “I was curious. I asked Howard if the guy was still in the picture.”

 

Surprise jolts an answer from her: “You could have asked me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“He isn’t, incidentally. In case Howard wasn’t clear on that point.”

 

“I know,” Steve repeats. “Someone you met in L.A.?”

 

“No. We got engaged there, but no, I knew him here first. We worked together.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

An irrational annoyance swells in her. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

 

He looks at her steadily for a moment before observing, “Your hair looks nice today.”

 

She blinks at him. “What?”

 

“You said, if I had something to say—”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” she protests, flustered.

 

He shrugs. “That’s all I got.”

 

“Steve, I wasn’t—I don’t care that Howard told you about Daniel. I was angry about him telling you those other things. We’d agreed to wait until you’d had more time.”

 

Steve watches her. His posture appears relaxed, but his hand is gripping the armrest of the settee so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.

 

“We don’t have to talk about that,” she assures him. “Unless you need to.”

 

He shakes his head. The hand unclenches.

 

“I bought you some new pants.” It’s the only thing she can think of to say. “I asked Mr. Jarvis to pick out something as similar as possible to army-issue.”

 

A rosy bloom spreads over his cheeks and jaw. “You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“No sense in not having the right tool for the job.” She brushes aside his embarrassment with a brisk wave. “I’ll get your lunch started, shall I?”

 

Quite unexpectedly, he trails after her into the kitchen.

 

“So tell me about this guy.”

 

“He has a name. I’ve already told it to you.”

 

Steve nods, once.

 

“It wasn’t…” Impossible to explain; intolerable to leave it unexplained. “It wasn’t exactly a grand love affair,” she says at last.

 

She watches him grapple with that while she selects a tall mason jar from the hamper. Mrs. Jarvis’s chicken soup is a family recipe—delicious, nourishing, better than anything she could have made. Though she is a dab hand at reheating it on the stove, if she does say so herself.

 

“So what was it?”

 

“Something else, I suppose.” She makes a wry face at him over her shoulder, then goes back to stirring the pot literally, rather than metaphorically.

 

He doesn’t say anything—just takes a seat at her kitchen table, without waiting to be invited. She can tell he isn’t satisfied with her answers, but he doesn’t volunteer any more questions.

 

She sets down a bowl of soup for each of them, and a plate of bread and butter to share. Steve doesn’t touch the bread at all, and swirls his spoon around in the bowl, unenthused. He looks a little queasy. She knows from experience how sick-making it can be to break a long fast.

 

“I’ll make you a deal,” she offers. “You finish that, and I’ll answer your questions about Daniel.” She knows he isn’t about to let the matter drop. The least she can do is channel his stubbornness in a productive direction.

 

The first few mouthfuls are a challenge: his hand shakes, the noodles slithering off the spoon. When he picks up the bowl to drink his dinner, she says nothing to disparage his table manners.

 

He hasn’t even set the bowl back down before he asks, “What’d you like about him?”

 

Peggy considers. Steve doesn’t really want to know all the gory details, as much as he may think he does. But right now, she knows, his imagination is filling in the blanks to an uncomfortable degree. It would be the same for her, if their positions were reversed. What he needs is a frame of reference.

 

“He made me laugh,” she says. “He was clever, fun to talk to, and kind, at least at first. He’d been in the war, so there was a sense that we were speaking the same language, had the same ideas about duty and honour. He was a good detective; his work was detailed and methodical, and I admired that. And he was handsome, always nicely turned out. Not too tall.”

 

Predictably, Steve seizes on the last point. “What’s too tall?”

 

Peggy tosses her head insouciantly. “I don’t like to have to scale a man whenever I want to be kissed, that’s all.”

 

He frowns.

 

She pats his hand lightly, careful not to linger. “Your face will stick that way if the wind changes.”

 

“He was only kind at first?”

 

Peggy’s fingers move to twist a ring that isn’t there anymore. As much as there are things she wants him to understand, she doesn’t owe Steve a post-mortem of her engagement to Daniel.

 

Steve accepts her non-answer, and heads down a different path: “You wanted to marry him.”

 

It’s not a question, but she answers anyhow. “Yes.”

 

“Would you have gone through with it?”

 

“Hard to say. But I think not.” It’s not the ‘no’ he wants, but she won’t be dishonest, even to spare Steve’s feelings. “We wanted different things. Our priorities didn’t align. Finding you brought that to light, but if it hadn’t, something else would have.”

 

“Who broke it off?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Do you still keep in touch?”

 

“Not intentionally.”

 

She doesn’t mean to be flippant—but the truth is, it’s impossible to neatly excise a person from one’s life, after having known them so intimately. The entire flat is littered with evidence of her former life with Daniel: things he bought for her, things they acquired together, things hastily purchased after the split to replace what she’d had to leave behind. And there are still occasional run-ins—most of which involve Peggy resorting to blithe small talk, while Daniel stares at her like a wounded animal.

 

Steve seems to sense that he’s brushed up against a sore point, and gives her a moment to regroup before coming back with, “One more?”

 

She nods, bracing herself for the most uncomfortable questions: _Did you stop caring about me when he came along? Did you love him more than me? What if you were already married now?_

 

Steve looks down at his hands, then back at her, eyes solemn.

 

She gestures impatiently. “Out with it.”

 

“ _How_ tall is _too_ tall?”

 

Peggy laughs. It feels like ice breaking in her chest.

 

She’d often wondered, as time passed, whether she’d exaggerated Steve: the beloved dead, especially when taken so abruptly, tend to be enshrined, canonized in memory. She’d thought that perhaps she might have imagined his gentleness, his sharp wit, his rare gift for empathy.

 

It’s a relief to know she didn’t.

 

“Look, I’m just saying,” he continues, smiling now. “It’d be a real kick in the pants if I went through all this trouble to be taller, and it turned out you only liked short guys the whole time.”

 

She taps him on the arm, once, then lets her hand lie where it falls. “Stop fishing for compliments. And have some of this bread before I eat it all.”

 

He eats two slices of bread, and then another half-bowl of soup. It feels like nothing short of a miracle.

 

*

 

That night, Peggy decides that she’s sleeping in the bed.

 

It’s not a decision she takes lightly: she deliberates on it all through dinner, and the washing-up. She thinks it over in the bath, and lets the thought guide her selection of sleepwear.

 

Afterwards, as she reclines artfully on the settee in her dressing gown and slippers, pretending to be absorbed in the same newspaper she’s read half a dozen times already, she still isn’t quite sure.

 

Steve emerges from the kitchen with a glass of water, moving steadily across the room. For the first time, she’s able to take stock of how much he’s actually improved: he’s still thinner than he ought to be, and his movements lack their usual effortless grace, but his colour is good, his skin almost free of blemishes.

 

“Okay if I listen to the ball game in the bedroom?” he asks—and it doesn’t escape her notice how at home he seems, how quickly it’s become _the bedroom_ , not _your bedroom_.

 

It also doesn’t escape her notice that he seems to have overcome his shyness about parading around in his undershirt. He lounges in the doorway, perfectly at ease, drinking his water.

 

It’s then that she’s certain.

 

“That’s fine,” she tells him, folding the paper closed. “Do you mind if I join you?”

 

He looks at her, and his mouth seems to be trying to form words, but no sound comes out.

 

She waits.

 

“I didn’t know you liked baseball.”

 

The truth is, Peggy has spent most of her career surrounded by men. She can converse passably well about baseball, and boxing, and horse racing, and what the Americans call football. She doesn’t feel any particular affinity for any of them.

 

However, she feels a powerful affinity for this man, this beautiful man, standing on her threshold. She senses that he needs this, just as much as she does, but has no idea how to ask for it.

 

So she smiles at him, as sweetly as she knows how, and says, “I thought it was a requirement to live in Brooklyn that one had to keep current with the box scores.”

 

He rubs at the back of his head and peeks at her, sidelong, as though looking directly at her face is too much to bear.

 

“Okay,” he says, and stands aside.

 

In the bedroom, she hangs her dressing gown on its usual hook, and tucks her slippers under the end of the bed. It all feels rather staged, particularly when Steve remarks, obligingly, “Nice pajamas.”

 

“I’m glad you think so.” The pajama set is elegant, though it does absolutely nothing for her figure. Its one even remotely alluring feature is its keyhole neckline, which falls in such a way that Peggy always feels compelled to wear a camisole underneath, to avoid unintentionally giving anyone an eyeful.

 

Peggy hasn’t worn these pajamas since her convalescence; the separate top and bottoms had allowed Mr. Jarvis to tend to her injury, while sparing them mutual embarrassment.

 

It’s more than she would normally wear on such a warm evening, but she has resolved to do the thing properly. She has plenty of nightdresses that are well-suited for a seduction, but that isn’t what this is.

 

But if Steve notices how shapeless the pajamas are, he does a good job of hiding it. “You’re always so stylish,” he tells her, with a look of open admiration. “Even when you’re just going to sleep.”

 

It’s such a sincere and utterly _Steve_ thing to say, and she feels herself sparkle. “Thank you.”

 

He finds the right station on the radio, static and chatter filling up the space between them. The game hasn’t quite started; the announcer is still hawking breakfast cereal, the crowd at Ebbets Field audible in the background.

 

She plumps one of the pillows, mostly for something to do. “Do you have a preference for any particular side?”

 

He looks at her like she’s just beamed down from outer space. “The Dodgers.”

 

“I’m talking about the bed, Steve.”

 

“Oh.” He gives the other pillow a smack. “No, not really. You?”

 

“I’d like the lamp on my side, if that’s all right.” The right-hand side was always Daniel’s, and she feels the need to break with tradition.

 

She wonders whether she’s making a production of this, whether it wouldn’t be better to let things happen naturally, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, and crosses to the left-hand side.

 

They lie down, facing each other. There’s enough space between them for a third person, but Peggy is determined that there will be no one else in this bed tonight, metaphorically or otherwise.

 

He asks her what she thinks about a couple of the players, how she feels about the season so far, and she’s able to answer without completely humiliating herself.

 

When the game starts, though, there’s no more talk. It’s clear that Steve is making a genuine effort to listen—which only makes sense, given that it’s what he came in here to do. Peggy settles onto her back, and he follows suit, their shoulders just brushing.

 

She watches the shadows lengthen and dissipate, and falls into a kind of doze, lulled by the steady rhythm of the announcer’s voice. It’s the first time in days she’s really relaxed—she doesn’t have to worry about Steve, because he’s right there. She rouses herself whenever a particularly good play incites the audience to cheer, or when Steve makes a comment that requires an answer from her, but apart from that, she lets herself drift.

 

Somewhere around the bottom of the fifth inning, she realizes that she’s started holding Steve’s hand, or he’s started holding hers. However it began, his thumb is brushing along each of her fingers in turn, over and over, as though trying to commit them to memory. It feels wonderful.

 

“Steve?”

 

He stills. “Hmm?”

 

“I’ve forgotten who’s winning,” she confesses.

 

“We’re up by two.” He sounds confident about it, then adds, “I think.”

 

When she laughs, he laces his fingers more firmly through hers. She can’t remember the last time such a simple touch made her heart turn over in her chest.

 

“I’m glad,” she says softly.

 

She wakes sometime later to find the room completely dark. The game is over, and a program of dance music has started. Steve is sound asleep, his soft mouth against her shoulder, his arm draped carelessly across her waist.

 

She doesn’t want to move him, but the heat of his body is oppressive, and she knows she’ll never sleep with the radio going.

 

When she comes back to the bed, he’s curled into his usual sleeping position: on his stomach, face hidden, hands tucked under the pillow. His shoulders are beautifully rounded, the smooth curve of muscle tempting her to bite it. It’s the first purely carnal thought she’s had about Steve in a long time, the first time her desire hasn’t been tinged with guilt or regret. It’s such a relief to know it’s still possible that she actually laughs.

 

Steve heaves up on his elbows, not quite awake, and mumbles an interrogative.

 

“Shh. Don’t mind me. Go back to sleep.”

 

He drops his head obediently.

 

She falls asleep imagining what it will be like to kiss him again.


	2. Chapter 2

By Saturday, the heat becomes intolerable.

  
They go to the pictures—not because either of them are particularly keen, but for the sweet relief of air conditioning. Steve, is slightly behind the times, but he still has a soft spot for Judy Garland. And so they sit through _Easter Parade_ three times, Peggy dozing lightly against Steve’s shoulder, his cheek resting on the top of her head. She’s never been one for that sort of thing—canoodling in public, like youngsters with no privacy afforded them at home—but it’s dark, and no one’s paying attention to them in any case.

 

In the back of her mind, she wonders whether she ought to at least attempt a conversation with Daniel, before they run into him in the neighbourhood. But in the end, it’s too hot to think properly about it.

 

They stop by the L&L for something to eat. It’s a tactical error on Peggy’s part: Steve is clearly flagging, and though he makes a valiant effort, Angie’s stream-of-consciousness patter is a lot for him to take. So is the extra serving of meatloaf she foists on him, for that matter; when he can’t eat it, Angie insists on packing it up for them to take home, along with a slice of chocolate cake each. Steve is barely alert enough to thank her.

 

Back at the apartment, he heads straight for the bedroom, pausing only to pull off his shoes before tumbling into bed fully-dressed.

 

Peggy takes a cool bath, and puts on the most comfortable thing she can find: an old, loose-fitting army t-shirt, and a pair of silky French knickers. She braids her hair in a crown, to keep it off her face and neck.

 

Somewhat refreshed, she treats herself to a glass of whiskey with plenty of ice, and polishes off the last few chapters of her mystery novel.

 

Even with the window open and the fan going, the bedroom is an oven. Steve, having abandoned his modesty to the heat, has stripped down to his shorts and undershirt and is splayed across the bed like a starfish, face down. She’s tempted to pinch his pert bottom, but manages to restrain herself.

 

She pushes his leg aside to get into bed, on top of the sheet rather than beneath it. Steve mumbles a half-hearted apology into the pillow, which she dismisses, pointing out that they may as well be as comfortable as they can.

 

She doesn’t add that he was nude for the majority of his hypothermia treatment; it isn’t strictly fair play, given that he was unconscious, and she was there in a professional capacity.

 

He turns on his side to look at her, and his face falls. Peggy assumes it’s either the unbecoming hairstyle or the lack of silk pajamas that’s let the wind out of his sails. She’s not particularly inclined to apologize for either.

 

“Something wrong?” she inquires idly.

 

“That’s a man’s shirt.”

 

It’s not the reply she expected, but it’s not surprising. He’s been very understanding, very accommodating—far more so than she would have been, in his place.

 

But he’s only human. And it’s been an exhausting day.

 

Peggy has never been the type to use jealousy to inflame a man’s passions. A suitor who takes his pleasure in that form tends to think of women as objects for him to possess.

 

But she knows that Steve is not that man.

 

She reclines on the pillow, her shirt riding up just enough to reveal the lace edging on her knickers. She watches his gaze flick to her legs and then back to her face, meeting her eyes defiantly.

 

“Yes,” she says at last. “It is. What of it?”

 

“You’re in bed with _me_. Wearing some other guy’s shirt.”

 

“And that bothers you?”

 

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

 

“All right, then. Take it off.”

 

He blinks hard, as though he thinks he must be hallucinating. “What did you just say?”

 

“You don’t like the shirt. You don’t want me wearing it. Take it off me.”

 

He doesn’t move right away, and she wonders if maybe she’s overplayed her hand. Then, all at once, he’s kneeling beside her, both hands on the t-shirt’s hem. She sits up and raises her arms, letting him peel the shirt over her head.

 

She knows she has nothing to be embarrassed about, but she feels herself colour up when he looks her over. Even in the dim light, she knows he can see her as clear as day. She steels herself; she can’t help the blush, but she will not tremble, not now.

 

“Well?” she says lightly. “Are you satisfied? Shall we go to sleep?”

 

His fingers are bolder than she expects: skating along the top of her thigh, dipping beneath the hem of her shorts. “It’s too hot to sleep,” he murmurs.

 

“Then let’s not.”

 

His hand stills; he looks at her uncertainly.

 

“Sleep,” she clarifies.

 

He nods.

 

And then he finally, _finally_ kisses her.

 

Figuring that turnabout is fair play, she inches his undershirt up around his ribs. She tries to do it without breaking the kiss—but she must be moving too slowly for his tastes, because he rears up, reaches back, and yanks the shirt off by the collar, throwing it across the room.

 

The feel of his skin against hers makes her wild; she presses kisses along his jaw and bites his earlobe. Steve gives a helpless groan. She wriggles out of her underwear, then gets her hand down the front of his, gratified to find him in a state of readiness.

 

But when she hooks her leg around his hip to roll him on top of her, he won’t cooperate. It’s an absurd moment: she is acutely aware of the futility of trying to wrestle Captain America, and yet awareness doesn’t stop her from giving it a go.

 

“Peggy,” he pants. “We can’t.”

 

She touches the back of her hand to his forehead; he’s flushed, and sweating, but no more so than she.

 

“I’m fine,” he assures her. “I just—I feel like if we get started, we won’t want to stop when we need to, and—Howard didn’t give me anything.”

 

It takes her lust-fogged brain a moment to parse the sentence, and to figure out what the devil Howard has to do with it. “You don’t have any rubbers, you mean,” she translates.

 

He nods, and she curses herself for not having had the forethought to locate her Dutch cap; she’s not about to excuse herself to go rooting through cases and boxes for it now. And Steve clearly isn’t amenable to the time-honoured Catholic method.

 

She exhales hard. “There’s a tin in the nightstand,” she admits.

 

Even distracted, Steve’s mind is remarkably quick, and she watches his face change as he works out the implications: one, that she slept with Daniel. Two, that she slept with Daniel _in this bed_. And three, that she slept with Daniel in this bed enough times to make a habit of keeping supplies on hand.

 

But all he says is, “Okay.”

 

And reaches for the drawer.

 

As unpracticed as he is—as they are together—it’s still incredible. It’s clear that Steve intends to be the _last_ man she welcomes into her bed; either because he means to stay for good, or because his eagerness might actually be the death of her.

 

Normally so mindful of his physical advantage, he seems to forget himself: the bed smacks into the wall with every thrust, and she has to brace herself with an arm against the headboard. She loves every second of it, and would never dream of asking him to slow down, but she can already tell that she is going to feel this for days.

 

Perhaps it’s best for both of them, then, that he doesn’t last.

 

He’s quiet when it happens; he tucks his face against her shoulder and tenses, then goes slack. “Sorry,” he gasps, trembling all over.

 

“My darling.” She holds him tightly, stroking the back of his neck. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for.”

 

“You didn’t…”

 

She smoothes back his sweat-damp hair. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself.”

 

He lifts his head to look at her. Even in darkness, she recognizes the determined set of his jaw.

 

It turns out that what Steve lacks in longevity, he more than makes up for in resolve, and he doesn’t let up until Peggy’s initial generosity has been repaid several times over.

 

It’s clear that someone’s taught him a thing or two about how to use his mouth on a woman; whether the tuition was practical or merely theoretical, she doesn’t know. In this moment, she doesn’t especially care. He is relentless, and she gives herself over to him, completely.

 

At long last, sated and spent, she lets her legs slide away from his shoulders. Their bodies are slick with sweat, the room a sauna. She still has a fistful of the top sheet tightly clutched in each hand, her knuckles aching as she relaxes them.

 

“My God, Steve,” she breathes.

 

He plants a gentle kiss just below her navel. “That was okay?”

 

“I should have thought my opinion on the matter was quite clear.”

 

He grins up at her. “I wanted to hear it again.”

 

She ruffles his hair. “Cheeky.”

 

His chin is resting on her belly, a hair’s breadth away from the ugly scar on her hip. There’s no way he could have missed it. She waits for a question that seems inevitable, but as usual, Steve seems to have other ideas.

 

He crawls back up the bed, stretching out beside her. He looks pleased with himself, in a way that in any other man would be insufferable; as it is, though, she’s quite pleased with him too. He’s acquitted himself admirably, particularly given that he’s still recovering.

 

She skates her fingers over his chest. “It’s a shame it’s too beastly hot to cuddle.” She says it jokingly, but it’s true: she’d like nothing more, in this moment, than to fall asleep holding him.

 

“Cuddle?” His wide-eyed incredulity is almost certainly feigned. “You?”

 

“You don’t know everything about me, Steve Rogers.”

 

“So tell me something I don’t know,” he says equably.

 

How very like him, she thinks: his opponent points out a deficiency, and he turns it into an opportunity. And she is cunningly disarmed.

 

“All right.”

 

Peggy leans over the edge of the bed and gropes around on the floor until she recovers her shirt. She flips it around to find the collar, then passes it to him, so he can read the name marked inside.

 

His astonishment is more genuine now. “This is mine.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How?”

 

“After you—after it happened, they put some of your things in storage. Dugan thought they ought to go to me. I thought it best not to ask how he acquired them.”

 

“You kept my stuff?”

 

“Not all of it. I returned the books from the Brooklyn Public Library. Apparently, you have quite a history of overdue fines.”

 

He nods, shamefaced.

 

“But the few things that were rightfully yours, and in good condition, are somewhere hereabout.” She gestures broadly, but she knows exactly where the box is. She’d delayed bringing it down to Daniel’s apartment for months.

 

“Peggy.”

 

“I threw away your dirty socks,” she continues, because she suddenly feels as though her chest may cave in if she doesn’t keep talking. “Even I have my limits.”

 

“Peggy,” he says again, pained.

 

“And there was a vial of your blood. I poured that into the East River.”

 

Steve’s brow creases. “They gave you my _blood_?”

 

“No, I had it from Howard, but he didn’t exactly _give_ it to me, I—” She feels as though she’s speaking too quickly, breathing too fast.

 

He gathers her into his arms just as the tears begin to fall.

 

It’s all the more shameful because she _never_ cries—or, at any rate, not like this: trembling and gasping, bosom heaving, face contorted. She has no idea why it should be happening now, when she’s happier than she’s been in months; she tries to explain as much, but each attempt is less coherent than the last.

 

Steve is lovely throughout all of it. He doesn’t try to soothe her, or call her pet names, or reason away her tears; he just holds her close, letting his body be her shelter for as long as she needs.

 

When she starts to wind down, he mops her tears with one sleeve of the contentious shirt and says, drolly, “And you said it was too hot to cuddle.”

 

It isn’t until she kisses his cheek, and finds it damp, that she realizes she isn’t the only one who’s been crying.

 

She draws a shaky breath. “I’ll have my shirt back, if you’re quite finished.”

 

“Oh, it’s your shirt now?” He helps her into it all the same, holding the collar wide so she can slip her head through.

 

“It’s comfortable. And it’s what I’m used to. I slept in something quite similar during the war. You lot were always causing trouble in the middle of the night, and I had to be able to get into my trousers at a moment’s notice. It isn’t all posh silk pajamas around here, you know.”

 

“That’s fine by me. I like the idea of being able to get into your trousers at a moment’s notice.”

 

Peggy is delighted. He’s never spoken to her that way before; she was beginning to wonder whether he was even capable of discussing sex without bursting into flames. “Likewise,” she tells him, with a wink.

 

“Do you really go around without underwear sometimes?”

 

“Of course not!” It feels almost luxurious to laugh, after crying so hard. “Oh, Steve, honestly.”

 

“I couldn’t tell if you were serious. It’s been keeping me up nights.”

 

“It has _not_. You sleep like a stone. It’s impossible to wake you.”

 

“I didn’t say it was keeping me awake,” he retorts.

 

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

 

“You couldn’t if you tried.” The words are muffled by her hair. He wraps his arms around her, throwing one leg over both of hers.

 

Peggy decides that perhaps it isn’t too hot to cuddle, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Peggy wakes thirsty and dazed; emotional displays always give her a bit of a hangover, which is one reason why she rarely indulges.

 

As she’d predicted, every muscle in her body is aching, particularly those located in her abdomen and points further south.

 

She tiptoes to the bathroom, where she tidies herself up and drinks several glasses of water, before returning to inspect her property.

 

Steve is asleep on his side, in a sort of antique repose: flawless and milky-skinned, reminiscent of a marble sculpture. Except that, she notes with some amusement, he must have gotten up in the night to retrieve his shorts.

 

Enjoying her newly-minted lover’s entitlement, she tucks herself back under his arm, luxuriating in the feel of him. He has the softest skin of any man she’s ever known.

 

He curls around her with a drowsy sound of affirmation. “Mornin’,” he mumbles.

 

She gives in to temptation, and reaches around to squeeze his bottom.

 

He chuckles. “That my wake-up call?”

 

“Yes, and you’d better get used to it. I plan to start all my mornings this way.”

 

He kisses her, hitching her leg up over his hip. “Guess how I plan to start my morning.” He presses against her in a way that leaves little room for doubt.

 

His confidence is immensely appealing, but she can’t help needling him just a little: “How many guesses do I get?”

 

“We’re not playing Twenty Questions.”

“No, let’s. Can I put it in my mouth?”

 

He gives her his sternest Captain America face.

 

“Is it bigger than a breadbin?” She barely manages to get the words out before dissolving into helpless laughter.

 

“Wiseass,” he mutters, rolling her onto her back.

 

*

 

Some time later, Peggy is forced to concede defeat—or at least, cramped muscles and mild dehydration. Even so, it takes a measure of willpower to stop: it’s addictive, all of this kissing and touching. And they have so much lost time to make up for.

 

When they finally manage to get up, she shoos Steve out to the sitting room so she can change the sheets. As nice as it is to take a decadent view about lounging in the bed of love, he’s still recovering, and she’s not about to skive off out of sentiment.

 

While she makes the bed and tidies around, Steve lights the little gas range and produces a passable breakfast. He uses up all of the eggs and most of the bacon, making far more than the two of them can possibly eat—which she takes as a good sign, despite the nagging feeling that they’re being wasteful.

 

She supposes it’s a kind of compliment, that he doesn’t assume she’ll take a delicate, lady-sized portion—but honestly, she isn’t about to eat six eggs and half a pound of fried meat at a sitting, even after a morning of especially athletic lovemaking.

 

“You’re too used to cooking for other men,” she observes, spreading her napkin across her lap.

 

“You’re too used to being on rations,” he counters. There might be something to that, though she isn’t about to say so.

 

“I’m half your size!”

 

“You got twice the workout I did,” he says cheekily.

 

“Is that really something you want to admit to?”

 

“Shh. Eat your bacon.”

 

After watching him pack away his enormous breakfast, most of a bottle of milk, and a gallon or so of black coffee, Peggy firmly refuses Steve’s help with the dishes. He lingers, underfoot, until she finally exiles him to the living room under threat of a sound thrashing with a wet dishtowel.

 

It isn’t until the housework is complete that she allows herself the luxury of dropping down next to him on the settee. She drapes her legs over his lap, inquiring, “What shall we do today?”

 

He covers her knee lightly with one hand. His grin speaks volumes.

 

“Steady on, Captain. We don’t all have your healing gifts.”

 

The grin fades slightly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

 

“Not in any way that wasn’t thoroughly enjoyable at the time.”

 

Steve winces.

 

“You needn’t look quite so guilty,” she assures him, patting his arm. “I’m out of practice, that’s all. Lost my riding seat.”

 

He blushes, ridiculous creature that he is, but meets her gaze as he replies, “Well, when you want to get back in the saddle, you know where to find me.”

 

And then he reaches across her, without another word, and picks up the newspaper.

 

There’s no sulking, no importuning. She’s never known a man who didn’t try his luck at least once after having been gently turned away. But then, for all his assumptions and missteps, it’s never been Steve’s style to press.

 

He skims his hand absently over her leg as he reads, but only up to her knee and then back again; affectionate, rather than seductive.

 

She watches him, continuing the inventory she began while he was sleeping. His hair, free of pomade, tumbles boyishly over his brow; his eyebrows and his mouth both have the comical tilt that means he’s read something amusing. She’d like to ask what particular item on the sports page is so entertaining—only then, the moment would be lost.

 

His jaw and neck are finely speckled with a day’s growth of beard. She wonders whether he will shave today, or let it alone until tomorrow. Will his grooming habits be more fastidious now, compared to when time and supplies were short? Or will he take a measure of comfort in keeping to the same routine?

 

From there, naturally, she falls to speculating about how his unshaven cheek might feel, scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs. The mere thought of it makes her sore, but she still feels herself flush, all over.

 

Oblivious to the turn her thoughts have taken, he tickles the back of her knee lightly and says, “We could see another movie.”

 

“We could.”

 

“They’re showing _Meet Me in St. Louis_ this afternoon.” He whistles a snatch of a tune that she imagines must feature in the picture.

 

“And here I thought _I_ was your steady girl. Not Judy Garland.” She manages to say it coolly, as though her heart hasn’t just leapt into her throat. It’s the first time either of them has made any kind of definitive statement about what’s going on between them.

 

But Steve just smiles. “I didn’t think she’d mind if I invited you along. Though I ought to let you do the inviting, since it’s your money.”

 

“Oh, I expect I’ll be repaid,” she replies, in a low rasp. “In some form or other.”

 

He looks her over hungrily. Even if she weren’t practically sitting in his lap, his train of thought would still be as plain as day—particularly because it mirrors her own.

 

And so she gives in, and does something she’s always wanted to do, simply for the pleasure of seeing the expression on his face: she gets up off the settee, and kneels in front of him.

 

Steve doesn’t disappoint. He looks equal parts startled and eager, and just a touch uncertain—as though she might be down there for some unknown, innocuous reason.

 

“I can’t think of a nicer way to pass the time until we go to the pictures.” She smiles up at him, and licks her lips very deliberately. “Can you?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

She takes hold of his knees, nestling herself comfortably between them, then turns her attention to the buttons on his trousers.

 

He tenses all over.

 

“Lean back,” she tells him, kneading the hard muscles of his thighs. “Relax.”

 

She issues a series of instructions, which Steve tries valiantly to follow: reclining against the cushions, lifting his hips to let her slide his trousers and shorts down.

 

She takes her time, teasing him all over with the lightest brush of fingertips, sucking bruises into his hip and thigh that she knows won’t last. Words seem to be beyond his power, but when she finally puts her mouth on him, the sounds he makes are wonderfully expressive.

 

She works him over slowly, painstakingly, with hands and lips and even teeth. If the way his legs are trembling is any indication, he’s trying very hard not to thrust up into her mouth.

 

When she glances up, his head is thrown back too far for their eyes to meet, but she can tell by the tightness of his jaw and the corded muscles of his neck that he must be close.

 

“Some—someone’s coming,” he gasps.

 

It’s a testament to Peggy’s concentration that this strikes her, at first, as an extraordinarily coy bit of phrasing—until a knock on the door makes his meaning clearer.

 

She pulls away, springing to her feet. “Don’t move.”

 

Steve nods, looking dazed.

 

Fortunately, her skirt covers her knees, which are scored with lines of red after prolonged contact with the wood flooring. A quick glance in the hall mirror confirms that her makeup hasn’t suffered any critical damage.

 

She opens the door, quite unexpectedly, to Colonel Phillips.

 

“Good morning, sir.” Being a civilian, she doesn’t technically owe him the courtesy, but habit is a hard thing to break.

 

“Carter,” he grunts, and elbows his way into the hall without waiting to be invited. Most perplexing of all, he’s holding a large covered dish.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” They haven’t spoken since the hospital, when she sat down with him and his aide to debrief the entire affair of her break-in to the underground facility. And Chester Phillips is not a man who makes social calls.

 

“The missus thought you might appreciate some of her tuna casserole.” He thrusts the covered dish into her hands.

 

“Oh, I see. That’s very kind of her.”

 

“Spoken like someone who never tasted my wife’s cooking.” He claps her briskly on the shoulder, the military man-to-man version of a hug. “How’s he doing?”

 

“Better every day—though I’m afraid he does tire easily, and the flat is at sixes and sevens just now.” Unexpectedly saddled with the casserole, she can’t seem to block the colonel’s progress into the living room without making herself overly conspicuous. “If you’d care to come back in the afternoon, we can—”

 

“Now’ll do,” says Phillips, as though grudgingly accepting an invitation she’s made. “I want to talk to you anyhow. There he is!” he bellows, pushing past her.

 

Steve has arranged himself on the couch, lying down, covered to the waist with a strategically-rumpled blanket. However, there’s no concealing how flustered he is: his colour is high, his breathing ragged.

 

“You look like hell, Rogers,” Phillips observes, shaking Steve’s hand.

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Damn sight better than last time, though.”

 

Peggy cringes inwardly, but Steve takes it in stride, replying, “Agent Carter’s been taking good care of me.”

 

“Agent?” Phillips’ gaze slides from Steve to Peggy, who adopts what she hopes is a neutral expression. There’s a moment when she thinks he’s about to give her away, but he merely remarks, “If you’re not on a first-name basis with her by now, then maybe those doctors need to check your head again.”

 

“Force of habit.” Fortunately, Steve can’t possibly get any redder, so there’s no betraying blush.

 

“Colonel, will you take coffee?” asks Peggy quickly, hoping to forestall any further discussion of her social life and current employment status.

 

“Sure. Let’s have it in the kitchen. Don’t want to disturb the patient.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Steve protests.

 

“Son, you look like ten miles of bad road. You don’t get a say. Rest up, you got tuna casserole to look forward to.”

 

In the kitchen, Peggy starts the percolator, while the colonel parks himself on the sturdiest of her mismatched kitchen chairs.

 

“You mind telling me what you think you’re doing?” he asks.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be slightly more specific.”

 

“You didn’t tell him you quit your job.”

 

“I’m trying not to foist a lot of changes on him at once. Do you still take sugar?”

 

“You’re a coward, you mean.”

 

Peggy claps the sugar bowl onto the table. “Have you ever been bodily removed from a room by a woman?” she inquires, cordially. “Because you’re not my commanding officer now.”

 

“True. Though I’m looking to change that.”

 

She looks at him askance.

 

“After the whole shitshow with Thompson, we’re making some changes. A complete restructuring of the division, from the top down. The war’s over. It’s a whole new ball game out there. We need a fresh face at the head of the table.”

 

“And you’re just the man for the job?”

 

“No. You are.”

 

Peggy only narrowly avoids dropping the milk bottle. “Surely not.”

 

“You know I don’t have the patience for all this administrative bushwa,” adds Phillips, flapping his hands dismissively.

 

“And what makes you think I do?”

 

“You went after the top spot in the New York office.”

 

“And, as I recall, was deemed unqualified. And that was _before_ I broke into an SSR facility and held three of my former bosses at gunpoint.”

 

“Carter—”

 

“ _And_ stole a truck.”

 

“Carter. Look at me.”

 

She does.

 

“If you don’t want the job, fine. But don’t pass on a good opportunity because of wounded pride, or whatever the hell this nonsense is.” When she doesn’t immediately reply, he carries on with, “Is Sousa the problem?”

 

Peggy blushes—out of anger, rather than embarrassment. It’s a disgusting double standard; she doubts anyone has suggested to Daniel that he might be making his career decisions based on their failed engagement.

 

“No,” she snaps.

 

“We’ll be operating out of D.C., so you won’t have to deal with him much.”

 

“I’ve just told you there isn’t any problem!”

 

“Good. So it’s settled.”

 

“It’s nothing of the sort. You can’t turn up here unannounced and—and browbeat me into working for you!”

 

“I would’ve tried sweet talk, if I thought it’d work. But you can be damned unladylike sometimes.”

 

Peggy has never heard Colonel Phillips make an attempt at sweet talk. It is, frankly, a horrifying prospect.

 

“I can find someone else, Carter. But you were my first call.”

 

It’s a plain statement of fact, but Peggy is still touched.

 

“I’d be expected to move?”

 

“Yeah, ASAP. There’s money in the budget for relocation. ‘Course, I didn’t figure you for the type to shack up.” He smirks against the rim of his coffee cup.

 

Peggy doesn’t dignify the comment with a reaction. “What’s the salary like?”

 

“Not great, but you’ll negotiate.”

 

She sizes him up across a chipped Formica battleground. Phillips doesn’t flinch.

 

“I’ll consider it,” she concedes.

 

It takes her an eternity to get rid of him, but she manages it in the end, with a firm promise to give him her decision within 48 hours, and a slightly less firm promise to feed Steve a large portion of Mrs. Phillips’ tuna casserole.

 

After seeing the colonel to the door, she rejoins Steve on the settee, curling up against his side. “Now,” she says, with a sultry look, moving to peel back the blanket. “Where were we?”

 

He stills her hand. “I think you were about to tell me why you left the SSR. And committed at least one felony on the way out.”

 

Inwardly, she curses Chester Phillips and the proverbial horse he rode in on. Aloud, she remarks, “Your hearing is better. That’s a good sign.”

 

Steve waits.

 

“It’s a long story.” Phillips is right, she thinks: she is a coward. “If I start to tell it now, you’ll miss your date with Judy Garland.”

 

He drops an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Think you’ll take the job?”

 

“You’re eating me out of house and home.” She pokes him in the ribs. “Have you got something for me to do that pays a decent wage?”

 

“Howard might.”

 

“Would _you_ want to work for Howard?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then don’t be daft.”

 

Considered objectively, the D.C. job is the right call: she isn’t likely to be offered anything half so good elsewhere, and she isn’t particularly attached to New York for its own sake.

 

But from a personal perspective, the timing is abysmal.

 

She doesn’t want to break things off with Steve, but to ask him now to uproot his life to further her career, after everything he’s been through… it feels presumptuous, at the very least.

 

It might be a different story if they were married, or even engaged. But they aren’t, and Peggy isn’t about to introduce the subject now. Aside from being profoundly unromantic, it’s impossible to frame it in a way that won’t make Steve feel pressured into a decision.

 

“So.” He gives her a little squeeze.

 

“So.”

 

“Shacked up, huh?”

 

Peggy’s laugh catches her by surprise. “Don’t you start.”

 

“Or what? I’ve never been bodily removed from a room by a woman, either,” he remarks. “In case you were taking a poll.”

 

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says. And tackles him.

 

*

 

In the end, they put off going to the movies until the evening. Steve retires to the bedroom for a nap; Peggy runs to the shop across the street.

 

Despite the blistering heat, it’s invigorating to be outside; she feels the sun soak into her skin, infusing her with energy and light. She walks once around the block, working up a mild sweat, before refreshing herself in the air-conditioned shop. She’s in such a good mood that she pays the princely sum of twenty-four cents for four Cokes, the glass bottles scaly with frost. She carries them home with a spring in her step, already picturing how she’ll tiptoe into the bedroom and touch one of the bottles to the back of Steve’s neck.

 

When she strides into the apartment, Daniel is there: sitting in his usual chair, sleeves rolled up, looking beleaguered and sweaty. He’s brought back some winter boxes that Peggy had entirely forgotten about, without bothering to first inquire whether she might be home to receive them.

 

Steve, awkwardly playing host, is barefoot and in his undershirt—which isn’t his fault, but Peggy can’t help a twinge of annoyance. She knows how it must look.

 

She hates that it matters to her how it looks.

 

Caught on the wrong foot, Peggy feels defiant and is, in consequence, abrupt. Daniel is patronizing, and rude, probably for the same reason. After a terse exchange, she snatches up the ring-box from the sideboard and shoves it into his hand.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

The ease and playfulness of the morning are gone too. She and Steve pick their way around each other, tentative, as though navigating a minefield.

 

“So,” says Steve, finally. “That’s the guy.” The awkwardness of the phrasing stands out: he’s still avoiding using Daniel’s name, as though the name alone has power of invocation.

 

“Yes. Would you mind putting some clothes on?”

 

She thinks he might argue, but then he stands up—though not without a pointed glance at the boxes, which still have _Carter-Sousa_ scrawled on the side in Peggy’s handwriting.

 

“I wish you’d leave it,” she tells him, feeling her colour rise.

 

His hands fly up in protest. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

“What, so now you’re a mind reader?”

 

“Come off it, Steve.” It feels good to pick a fight, and awful at the same time—she’s at the peak of a roller coaster, a second before the drop. “You’re many things, but subtle is not one of them.”

 

He starts to go into the bedroom, then about-faces at breakneck speed. He comes at her shoulder-first, like he’s breaking down a door; only his extraordinary reflexes save them from a collision.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were living with him,” he says tightly.

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

“Your stuff was!”

 

“We were engaged! People move in together when they get married! Just what the bloody hell is that supposed to prove?!”

 

“It’s not supposed to prove anything! Can we let it go?”

 

“You brought it up!”

 

“I’ve been trying like hell _not_ to bring it up!”

 

Peggy marches into the bedroom, elbowing him out of the way, and hauls a dingy footlocker out of her closet. She drops it at Steve’s feet; the bang makes them both jump.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You know perfectly well,” she says, hoarsely. “It’s your ‘stuff.’ Living with me. Before my ‘stuff’ was living with Daniel.”

 

“You hang on to this, when you’re about to marry some other guy?”

 

Peggy is overcome with a bizarre sense of _déjà vu_. She’s had this conversation dozens of times already—only not with Steve. And she’s had her fill of it.

 

“Right,” she snaps. “Let’s you and I get this sorted, once and for all. Daniel was not ‘some other guy.’ He didn’t move in on your girl when she got tired of keeping the home fires burning. I thought you were _dead_ , Steve. Do you understand that? I spoke at your funeral. I brought flowers to your grave. I accepted it as fact. And in doing so, even though I still cared for you, I gave myself permission to care for someone else as well. I’m not going to deny that it happened, or pretend I’ve done anything wrong. And I won’t have it thrown in my face every time you’re cross with me.”

 

Steve looks taken aback. “I wasn’t. I won’t.”

 

“Then _what_? What is it?”

 

“I just need to—get it through my head, I guess.” He sounds utterly defeated. “In my mind, it was only a few days ago that you were kissing me goodbye. And now I wake up and find out you were about to marry some other—someone, someone else. I know it wasn’t that fast for you, but it feels that way to me. It’s hard to wrap my mind around.”

 

Peggy feels her heart drop like a lead weight. She realizes that she—unconsciously—has been expecting Steve to behave the way Daniel might have done.

 

Daniel, ever the investigator, tended not to argue unless he felt he had enough evidence on his side to win; instead, he would file things away until, in the midst of a heated discussion, Peggy found herself being called to account for things she’d said and done months ago, already half-forgotten.

 

But that isn’t the way Steve operates. He hasn’t been building a case against her; he’s simply been trying to make sense of the passage of time.

 

And her secrecy, her defensiveness, her insistence that she had every right to be happy when he was gone, could easily be interpreted as her still carrying a torch.

 

It’s so absurd, it’s almost funny: _Steve_ , thinking she’s been pining over the loss of _Daniel_.

 

“Peggy, I’m sorry. Really. I know it’s not—”

 

“No, I—” She has no idea what ought to come next, but keeps talking all the same. “It’s my fault. I should have told you the whole story from the beginning.”

 

“You still can.” There’s a quiet resolve in his look, his voice. “I’m ready. I can take it.”

 

And so she does. She tells him everything.

 

How it had all begun with Howard ringing her up in the middle of the night, livid because Jack Thompson and the SSR had annexed his discovery and his equipment. They were still working on the wreck of the _Valkyrie_ , but Howard had managed to stay in the area long enough to see them load a massive block of ice onto the jet.

 

She’d spent every moment she could afford digging in the deepest, dustiest annals of the New York office, before happening upon a set of construction plans for a cold storage facility in Queens. It was the strongest lead they’d had to date.

 

Peggy hadn’t known who to trust. The plans had been approved by none other than Colonel Chester Phillips, and were dated a week before they’d begun training and evaluating recruits at Camp Lehigh. And Daniel had begun disappearing on Wednesday evenings—going on long drives, when he’d once confided in her that he hated driving.

 

She and Howard and Mr. Jarvis had broken into the facility and discovered Steve’s body, still encased in ice. Hoping against hope, Howard tried to scan for signs of life, but the equipment was faulty, the results inconclusive.

 

They weren’t there more than a few minutes before Thompson and a full complement of SSR agents apprehended them. Peggy had managed to get in a few good shots, but in the end she’d been hauled off to a holding cell, until Daniel had turned up to fetch her.

 

He’d made a devil’s bargain with Jack on her behalf to keep everything quiet. They’d had the mother of all rows, and Peggy had broken the engagement and quit the SSR in a blaze of burnt bridges.

 

With nothing left to lose, she’d recruited a few former colleagues, stolen a refrigerated dairy truck, and gate-crashed Thompson’s presentation to the brass, intending to claim what was left of Steve—by force, if necessary.

 

But before it reached that point, Howard had confirmed his suspicions: Steve still had a heartbeat.

 

They hadn’t known whether it would be anything more than that. There was no medical precedent for a man being frozen alive—no telling what effect such prolonged exposure would have on his heart or lungs or brain.

 

At the hospital, there had been no sign of consciousness, and then—suddenly, miraculously—Steve had started to breathe on his own.

 

“And the rest, you know.” Peggy feels as though she’s been talking for days, even though it’s barely been a quarter of an hour. She’s shivering, and the room feels cooler than it did, as if she’s somehow managed to conjure the essence of that underground laboratory by describing it.

 

Steve is watching her, awestruck.

 

“You went to all that trouble to get me out, before you knew that I was…”

 

She nods. “That’s the tricky bit about loving someone. The feeling doesn’t suddenly stop, simply because the person is—isn’t there anymore.”

 

Steve doesn’t do anything by half-measures. She has always known this about him. And yet it still catches her by surprise when he tells her, “I love you, too,” in a voice like a dam breaking.

 

Before she can reply, he kisses her, hard and frantic, pulling her to him. She hauls herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carries her into the bedroom.

 

He’s far more gentle than she expects—perhaps because, this time, he doesn’t feel compelled to measure up to anyone.

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

“Bother,” says Peggy, examining the chip in her nail varnish. Of _course_ it would be the night before her trip to D.C. “All this domesticity is hell on my feminine allure,” she declares. “I never washed this many dishes when I lived alone.”

 

Steve leans back, the kitchen chair groaning in protest, and gives her a thorough once-over. “Your feminine allure looks great from this angle,” he tells her, grinning.

 

She swats him with the dishtowel. “From now on, how about I do the cooking, and you do the washing-up?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve had your cooking. No deal.” But he puts down the paper all the same and comes to stand beside her, taking the towel from her hand. “Did you decide about the apartment?”

 

“It does seem ideal. It’s close enough that I can walk to the office, and the landlady doesn’t seem to mind her tenants having gentleman callers.” She finishes scrubbing the last plate clean and hands it off to him. “But it would save us a good deal of money, in the long run, if we pooled our resources and bought a house right off the bat. Spare ourselves the trouble of moving into separate flats, and you having to buy new furniture. I’ve got that relocation allowance, and some savings, and there’s the GI Bill, and whatever back pay you’re still owed… though if that’s the plan,” she muses, “then we should be married straight away.”

 

She says it without thinking: her mind partly on the ledger, and partly on her ruined manicure. It isn’t until she hears it come out that she realizes that marriage to Steve has been a foregone conclusion in the back of her mind for quite some time. They’re already planning a life together; getting married wouldn’t be a step forward, so much as an acknowledgement of the _fait accompli_.

 

A sound like a gunshot makes her jump. She turns to look at Steve, who is holding two neatly segmented halves of dinner plate. His look of complete and utter shock is almost comical.

 

“Unless, of course,” she continues, slowly, “you think it’s too soon for that.”

 

“No, I…” He sets the broken plate down on the draining board, and sweeps her up in a fierce hug, despite her wet hands and soggy smock. “Not too soon,” he says, the words muffled against her shoulder.

 

“Are you really that surprised?” She feels faintly guilty, and wonders if she hasn’t been as affectionate, as demonstrative, as she thinks. She squeezes him tightly, presses a kiss against his cheek. “Steve. Darling. You must know that I’m mad about you?”

 

“I figured you might want to wait.”

 

“What for?” she laughs. “For the sake of appearances? For the sheer fun of sitting still and being patient? You know me better than that.”

 

He sets her down carefully, looking as though she’s just told him that it’s his birthday and Christmas day, all at once.

 

“If you make the arrangements while I’m away, we can do it next week. That way it’s all settled before we move.” Teasingly, she adds, “You can write _Rogers_ on all my boxes.”

 

“I would’ve asked, you know.”

 

“You still can, if you like.”

 

There’s a look of determination on his face that makes her heart give a tiny leap. “Don’t think I won’t,” he tells her, tossing the dishtowel aside and pulling her back to him for a kiss.

 

The housework can wait, she decides.


End file.
